


The Infrastructure Will Collapse

by onstraysod



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: Rebels
Genre: Attempted Seduction, F/M, Inappropriate use of lekku, Sexualized acts of art appreciation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-26
Updated: 2017-11-26
Packaged: 2019-02-07 01:12:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12830139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onstraysod/pseuds/onstraysod
Summary: Hera Syndulla receives a mysterious invitation to a romantic rendezvous. Naturally she assumes the sender is Kanan Jarrus. She could not be more mistaken.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [politicalmamaduck](https://archiveofourown.org/users/politicalmamaduck/gifts).



> Title taken from "House of Cards" by Radiohead, which I listened to on repeat while writing this.
> 
> The Thrawn of this story is not the version from _Rebels_ , but is instead the Harlequin romance variety of grand admiral as depicted on the _[Thrawn Alliances](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Thrawn:_Alliances)_ cover and the [upcoming Thrawn comic](http://www.starwars.com/news/see-the-rise-of-an-imperial-mastermind-in-marvels-thrawn-1-exclusive-preview). Please fantasize accordingly. ;)

The message appeared quickly, green Aurebesh characters flashing across the screen. _It’s been too long_. After this terse sentence, coordinates and a time appeared. Then the closing words:

_Just the two of us for a change._

Hera shook her head, the movement sending little vibrations down her lekku. “We’re at war, Kanan, we don’t have time for this.” But she could hardly utter the words for the wideness of her smile. 

And after all, why not? She had acknowledged, just recently, how very long it had been since the two of them had had some time alone. Time with no Zeb and Chopper bickering at top volume in the background, no Ezra to corral and keep from trouble, no Sabine to gently nudge away from the highest-powered explosives. And no _Ghost_ to coax and cajole and piece back together after a particularly rough scrape. She loved them, and she would sacrifice her life for each one of them, but Hera had to admit that they were all - in their own wonderful ways - exhausting. 

And so was war. What were they fighting for if not this, the freedom to take one night and enjoy life’s simple pleasures? Hera batted away the thoughts that threatened to distract her from bringing the _Ghost_ back safely to its berth at the spaceport on Coruscant. It was dangerous, their current mission in the Imperial capital, and she needed all her wits about her to transmit the fake landing codes and disguise the ship’s true identity. But her mind was traitorous. It was the thought of _pleasures_ that had fired up her imagination, and now she couldn’t get this particularly frisky loth-cat of an idea back in its cage. The nearness of Kanan’s body. His hand reaching for hers, and straying farther: tracing the line of her arm, dipping beneath a table to rest upon her thigh, or settling on the nape of her neck, long tapered fingers drawing abstract patterns on her skin. He risked such touches as often as he could aboard the _Ghost_ , but such moments were always fleeting and too frequently interrupted by a crisis of some kind. They both longed for even a few hours of armistice, hours they could spend indulging all the little impulses they had thus far had to deny.

Her decision was made by the time she set the _Ghost_ down in its temporary berth. Leaving Chopper to take the ship through its post-flight checks, Hera departed the spaceport and headed for a complex of shops on the nearest level. The rest of the crew - finishing a supply run - would be gone for a few hours more, giving her plenty of time to complete this particular mission. Every walkway she entered was congested with lifeforms from across the galaxy, but Hera had thrown on a simple cloak to hide her lekku. To Imperial eyes she was just another xeno and therefore hardly worthy of notice, but one could never be too careful. Still, her spirits were buoyant despite her caution, and as she made her way along a thoroughfare of shops, gazing from one holographic display of goods to another, Hera felt an excitement bubbling up inside of her that she had not experienced for a very long time.

Kanan may have had his sight stolen, but Hera was certain that he could still see: not as he had before, but in a mysterious manner through the Force. She had noticed it herself during their missions: his instincts, his awareness of the approach of danger, as keen as if he had not lost one of his senses. So she would dress up for him tonight, just as if he still had his vision. Somehow he would sense the sheen of the fabric she selected, the shimmer of a spectrum of color he could visualize inside his head, and of course he would feel it: the softness of the cloth upon her body, and the places where cloth yielded to bare skin.

Locating a shop that catered to most species and was affordable enough for her meager stash of personal credits, Hera went inside and began to browse. With a little assistance from the female Pantoran proprietor, she soon found the perfect gown. It was made of a kind of synthsilk that was incredibly light and gauzy, and it fell from a central neck strap in a gentle cascade that made it seem the dress was floating around her body. Yet the fabric clung, too, and in all the right places: hugging her hips, draping down from her breasts. The Pantoran complimented Hera on her figure, and on the way the color of the gown played off the tones in her skin. The cloth was iridescent and shimmered subtly with every movement, like the sheen of the rare pearls divers risked life and limb to bring up from the seas of Chandrila. The aquamarine color of the gown was threaded with silver fibers that caught and reflected the light. Hera turned this way and that, studying the life-sized hologram of her body that was projected on a platform in front of her, and for a moment she hesitated. It was too much, too revealing: the back was open all the way to her hips and the flimsy little strap seemed incapable of holding the garment in place. But she overcame her hesitation and signaled to the shop's owner to wrap up her purchase. 

This was for Kanan, after all. This was for _her_. They deserved it - they had earned it, with blood and pain and fear - and whatever came after would seem less bitter for the time alone they took that night.

Hurrying back to the spaceport, Hera found the _Ghost_ sitting quietly in its appointed berth and Chopper busy somewhere in the innards of the ship. She went to her cabin and changed into the gown, matching it with a silver head cap, slightly fancier than the one she normally wore. Then she scrabbled about in her small locker of personal belongings for a tiny bottle which lay at the very bottom, beneath a pile of spare utility gloves and coveralls. It was a bottle of perfume, made from a rare orchid that grew in a single lowland on Saleucami, blooming only when their cycle of pollination was completed by fires sparked by meteorites that fell into the grasses around them. Quite expensive and almost impossible to purchase in these dark times, it had been a gift from her father to her mother on the day they took their vows, and less than half of it now remained. Hera twisted the cap loose and upturned the bottle against her finger, taking only a trace which she applied gingerly to each angle of her jaw, a spot on the lower end of each lek, and just between her breasts. Sealing the bottle again, she gave it a sentimental kiss and placed it back inside her locker.

Chopper had emerged into the cargo bay when Hera went to depart and, catching sight of his mistress in so unfamiliar a guise, the droid let out a long, low whistle.

“Well thank you, Chop,” Hera laughed, relatively certain that she was blushing and thinking herself utterly ridiculous for it. “Stay with the ship while I’m gone,” she told him, fetching up her cloak again and covering herself. “Some of the others should be back soon.”

The next noises the droid made posed a question and Hera shook her head. “Ah, I see. Kanan didn’t let you in on this little plan of his? Well never mind. He must have confided in one of the others, so you can complain to them when they get here.” As she started down the ship’s ramp, Chopper began gesticulating wildly with his utility arm and speaking so rapidly Hera could barely comprehend him.

“No, stop right there Chop, I don’t want to hear it. This jealousy and overprotective streak was cute once, but I don't have time for it now. Just take care of the ship. We’ll be back later.” Hera found herself grinning a little as she turned away from her demonstrative droid. “Or maybe not until the morning.”

The coordinates Kanan had sent her were for a place outside Coruscant’s main districts, comfortably distant from the planet’s Imperial heart. Hera had done a quick search of the Holonet and discovered that the coordinates matched those of a rather exclusive resort in a affluent but slightly bohemian sector, known for its art scene and numerous galleries. It was no place she was familiar with, but Kanan was from Coruscant and knew its various neighborhoods much better than she did. It was with a quickening pulse that she hired a hovertaxi to take her to her mysterious destination, and the feeling was a little like drinking too much Corellian brandy too fast. She hadn’t felt such giddiness in years. Maybe she had never actually felt it. The thrill of sneaking off to a secret rendezvous with the man she loved… Yes, loved. It felt good to admit it, even within her mind. It felt good to ditch the responsibilities of a captain’s command, even for a few fleeting hours. The military commander in Hera shook her head sternly in disgust at this jubilation, but she was escaping her too tonight. Tonight it truly would be just her and Kanan, alone: Captain Syndulla of the Rebel Alliance wasn’t invited to this party. The woman in the gauzy gown that accentuated all her curves, the woman eyed lecherously by passing drivers as she’d hailed the taxi -- that was Hera: not a leader, not a heroine, just a woman. A woman in love.

The journey took a little less than an hour to complete, and soon enough the speeder was descending through brightly lit lanes of interplanetary traffic toward a spire-like building with a flat, saucer-shaped pinnacle. The taxi docked at a landing pad about halfway down the building and Hera walked into the lobby, a massive room with a high slanted ceiling lit by floating candledroids. Various beings arrayed in the finery of their species milled about, taking in the superb view from the floor-to-ceiling windows or lounging on long sofas, sipping from fluted glasses or drawing spice from jeweled hookahs as they talked in a thousand different tongues. Hera made her way to a desk at the far end of the room, intending to present the room number listed in Kanan’s message to one of the attendants for directions. But before she could utter a word, a human man wearing the resort’s scarlet uniform gave her a quick bow in greeting.

“Ms. Syndulla, good evening. You’re expected. The private ballroom on the top floor. The turbolifts are just over there.”

Surprised, Hera mumbled her thanks and went in the gestured direction. Kanan was usually too cautious to give out their real names, but then they were quite far from the Imperial sector: perhaps he knew - as she would not - that this part of Coruscant was loyal to the Rebellion. Shrugging off her concerns, Hera stepped into the turbolift and began the ascent to the pinnacle of the structure, her pulse elevating along with the carriage, and hot blood rushing to her head to boot. “Relax,” she whispered to herself reprovingly, “you’re being ridiculous. You’re not some skittish girl just learning how vornskrs mate. At this rate your face will be burning so hotly Kanan will feel the heat before the lift doors open.”

Her self-remonstrations did little to calm her, and by the time the turbolift stopped Hera could hear her heartbeat pounding in her lekku. She realized that she was more nervous than she’d been on many a mission.

 _As soon as you see Kanan you won’t feel this way_ , she told herself. _You’ll slip back into your comfortable familiarity and everything will be fine. And as soon as he touches you, all your nerves and hesitation will simply melt away…_

The turbolift doors slid open and Hera stepped out into a dimly lit, silent room.

It was a large circular space with a high-ceiling like the lobby so far below, and its walls were windows, giving a complete view of the sparkling cityscape all around. Here, too, candledroids floated in the space above, but unlike the vast lobby the effect in this room was to create a mood rather than give illumination. The droids’ lights were in muted shades of blue, green, and red, their intensity set low; they reminded Hera of the multicolored flying firebugs that haunted summer nights on some planets, moving like showers of sparks or miniature falling stars in the warm evening air. There was a table in the very center of the room, set for two, with tall glasses of some rich amber-colored liquor already poured and waiting, but the rest of the room was devoid of any furniture. Instead, the periphery of the room was decorated with holographic works of art: sculptures, busts of all manner of species set upon holographic pedestals, intricate carvings without a discernible pattern or end point as far as Hera could see. Not at all the kind of decor Kanan would normally have chosen for a romantic evening.

But then, Hera really had no idea what kind of decor Kanan would choose. They hadn’t been allowed many romantic evenings.

“Kanan?” She called out to him softly, her voice carrying, echoing beneath the high ceiling. There was no answer and no movement anywhere in the shadows of the room. Hera turned, perplexed, and began scanning her surroundings. Her nervous excitement was quickly dissipating, replaced by the uncomfortable prickling of danger.

“Kanan? I got your message--" She stopped abruptly, aware of movement and a blur of something white behind a holographic statue to her left. 

“Good evening, Captain Syndulla. I’m very glad you could join me.”

Hera felt her throat tighten uncomfortably as she turned to face Grand Admiral Thrawn. As calmly and coolly as if he were strolling the bridge of his flagship, he walked out from behind the holograph where he had been concealed since her entrance and gave her a brief, courtly bow of greeting. The gold epaulets on the shoulders of his white uniform glimmered red beneath the light of a hovering candledroid, but his eyes were a deeper shade of crimson, hot like fresh spilled blood in the dimness of the room. 

“Where is Kanan?” Hera could barely get the words out between her gritted teeth: they emerged as a feral growl.

“Kanan Jarrus? I haven’t the slightest idea.” Thrawn made a dismissive gesture with one black-gloved hand. “Nor am I interested in his whereabouts at the moment. Did you think the message you received was from him?” When Hera didn’t answer, Thrawn made a soft tutting sound with his tongue and shook his head. “My dear Captain Syndulla, I expected more cunning from you. But I must admit that, in this case, I hoped for less. You must forgive my deception, I had some concern that you wouldn’t consent to this meeting if you knew the invitation came from me.”

Hera swallowed the scathing reply she wanted to make and instead said: “If this meeting is to discuss terms of surrender, you should have contacted an admiral in the Rebellion. You must know that only officers of equal rank can negotiate such matters.”

This won a smile from the Chiss, and he took a few more steps toward Hera, bringing him close enough for her to distinguish the colors of the squares in his rank plaque where it sat affixed to his broad chest. “There is nothing as intoxicating as a woman whose wit and humor are a match for her beauty,” he said. “There will be no surrenders, as you well know - at least not on my side. No, I used the wrong word just now: “meeting” is so businesslike, and business is the very last thing I have on my mind this evening.” A few more steps, and Hera could feel his nearness in the tips of her lekku. “Unless the business in question is pleasure.”

Something deep inside of Hera rolled over and she broke suddenly for the turbolift doors, her body surging with adrenaline. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Thrawn said, his voice carrying calmly after her, and before she reached the control panel for the lift she was almost knocked off balance by a sudden, violent trembling of the floor. 

“This is a sky room,” Thrawn told her. “We are currently being disengaged from the building below us, lifted up to hover above the clouds.” Hera now heard the tell-tale sound of gravitational boosters and felt the slight disorientation of a vertical ascent. Glancing at the windows, she watched the lights of the buildings grow a little smaller and the expanse of the ecumenopolis broaden in every direction. “You see, I’ve kept my word. Though I didn’t identify myself, I did promise in my message that we would spend the evening alone - and so we shall. It’s just the two of us here, alone beneath the stars.”

Hera’s hands curled reflexively into fists and she cursed her own foolishness. So this was what throwing off all responsibility for an evening had brought her to. Her desire for a little intimacy with Kanan had blinded her to danger and now she was trapped, floating miles above the tallest buildings on Coruscant with Grand Admiral Thrawn as her jailer.

The Chiss walked toward her, extending his hand. “As there is no where for you to go, Captain, why not try to enjoy yourself? I have ordered a particularly rare vintage of Gatalantan wine for our refreshment, and you must admit that the view we have is an incomparable one.” He stood patiently, gloved hand held palm up, the hint of a smile playing upon his lips. Hera merely scowled. “There are no legions here for us to command this evening. No fighters to deploy, no orders to give. Can we not put aside the conflict for a few hours, have some pleasant conversation like two civilized beings in a galaxy gone mad? We have so much in common, you and I.”

Hera gave a bitter laugh. “Name one thing you and I have in common, Admiral, and I will willingly sit down and make conversation with you, no matter how much it disgusts me.”

Those red eyes glittered with something Hera could only guess was delight. “What we have in common, my dear Hera, is that we are both xenos, enmeshed in a war created by human beings. We have devoted our lives, our very blood, to executing this war to the best of our abilities, yet we both know that we will never be given the honor and admiration afforded to the humans who started this conflict.”

Hera had flinched a little at the sound of her given name issuing from the grand admiral’s mouth. There was a familiarity in the way he said it, an intimacy that discomfited her. “That may be true,” she conceded, “but unlike you, I don’t care about honor and admiration. I only want victory.”

Now Thrawn made no effort to disguise his pleasure. “And our desire for victory, Captain, is yet another thing we have in common.”

He proffered his hand again, holding it closer to her body this time, and Hera - seeing no point in any further resistance or petulant acts of pique - accepted it. The cool leather closed around her fingers and Thrawn drew her toward the table.


	2. Chapter 2

“Allow me to take your cloak.” Holding her gaze, Thrawn drew the garment open and pushed it off her shoulders. Gritting her teeth, Hera fought to repress a shudder as Thrawn drank her in from head to foot. “I have seen a great many works of art, all across this galaxy,” he said quietly, “but I have seen nothing comparable to you.”

Hera felt physically ill. She had chosen the most revealing gown in the Pantoran’s shop, something that would excite Kanan’s senses when he reached out and touched her: the bare expanses of skin, the curves beneath the thin fabric. The fact that it was Thrawn who was now reaping the benefits of her choice both enraged and horrified her. “I assure you,” Hera said, still trying to suppress any outward expression of her feelings, “had I known who I was meeting tonight, I would have worn my greasiest pair of coveralls.”

To her astonishment, the Chiss laughed. “And I assure you, they would become you just the same.” He placed the cloak over the back of an extra chair and held out the seat at the end of the table for Hera. “Although I must admit, the view you have given me makes the one outside these windows pale in comparison.”

Thrawn handed Hera her wineglass and for a moment she considered tossing the contents in his face. Instead she set it down untasted as Thrawn took up his own glass and sipped at the fragrant liquid. “This wine is made from fruit that is harvested only once in a generation. It’s aged in undersea casks for up to a century before it is deemed flavorful enough to drink. Some vintages are equal in cost to a newly constructed star destroyer.”

Hera arched a brow. “Is that supposed to impress me?”

“You haven’t tried it yet.” Thrawn took another sip, gazing at Hera over the edge of his glass. “You should never pass judgment on something without trying it first. You might find it quite to your liking.”

With a sigh, Hera picked up her glass. Denying him this simply wasn’t worth the effort. The wine ran warm down her throat and seemed to sizzle pleasurably on her tongue. Grudgingly she admitted it was good. “But I still wouldn’t trade a star destroyer for it.”

“Nor would I, as it happens.” Thrawn didn’t take the opposite chair from Hera; instead he settled himself on the edge of the table just down from where she sat. The white fabric of his uniform trousers stretched tight across the muscles in the thigh nearest her and Hera found herself absently wondering if every Chiss male had such a sculpted, athletic physique. When she realized what she was thinking she hastily turned away, developing a sudden interest in the view outside the glass walls.

“What’s the point in the holograms?” she asked, gesturing to the flickering displays that encircled the room. The light of the images reflected off the windows and the polished floor.

“They form a part of my personal collection. The originals remain onboard the _Chimaera_ , of course, where they are protected from damage, but the holograms allow me to share them anywhere I travel. I thought, as a woman of sophisticated tastes, you might appreciate them.”

“Oh yes,” Hera said. “There’s nothing I enjoy more than examining the spoils of Imperial warfare and occupation.”

“You do me an injustice, Captain. I rescue works like these from certain destruction. And in cases where their provenance can be established, I either return them to the species or institutions from which they were removed, or I pay a fair price to continue safeguarding them. The cultural heritage of many worlds has thus been preserved by my actions.”

Hera smiled sweetly. “You are a model of benevolence, Admiral.”

Thrawn set down his wineglass and stood, offering Hera his hand once more. “Walk with me.”

She hesitated but, as with the wine, Hera saw no point in making an issue of it. Holding her skirt daintily, she stood - pointedly refusing Thrawn’s assistance - and brushed past him. It was only when she had taken several strides to outpace him that she remembered how skimpy her gown was from behind, exposing everything from the nape of her neck to the small of her back, and she froze to allow Thrawn to catch up with her. Walking at his side was better, she reasoned, than giving him a show from a distance. Even if that meant enduring the occasional brush of his sleeve against her arm, as happened when he drew near.

They walked from hologram to hologram, Thrawn identifying the origin of each piece and any interesting features that might escape the notice of anyone not thoroughly versed in the study of art. There were paintings by Abednedos, Rodians, and Iktotchi; woven textiles from the Weequay and Er’Kit cultures, elaborately shaped Iridonian body armor. There were strange sculptural pieces, too: Wookiee wood carvings and amorphous, almost organic-looking forms created by the webbed hands of Mon Calamari. Thrawn theorized about the inextricable connection between a culture’s behavior in war and its artistic sensibilities, and while she listened with one ear, Hera wondered what this strange interlude could possibly be about. Thrawn hadn’t brought her there, and stranded them both in Coruscant’s upper atmosphere, for no reason. He was coming to something, and she tried to piece together the evening’s odd edges to discern the larger picture. What was it that he wanted?

They had almost made a complete circuit of the room when Thrawn directed her attention to one final hologram. “Let me show you the piece that has, for some time now, been my particular favorite.”

He stopped in front of a holographic pedestal, atop which sat a sculpture done in smooth white stone. Hera’s stomach churned. It depicted a female Twi’lek poised in mid-dance, her long, slender body forming an elegant curve as her lekku flowed out behind her. Naked save for two decorative bands on her upper arms, the dancer’s head was thrown back, her eyes closed, an expression of rapture on her delicate face. 

“Exquisite, isn’t it?” Thrawn’s tone was hushed, even reverent, and his gaze didn’t stir from the hologram of the nubile figure. “A human work, obviously, not Twi’lek in origin. I’m curious: what do you think as you look at it?”

Hera sneered in distaste. “I see the exploitation of the female Twi’lek body. I see a human’s lewd fantasy. I see a galaxy’s stereotype of an entire species.” She fixed Thrawn with a look, narrowing her eyes. “But I suppose you’ll tell me that I’m mistaken.”

“Not at all. Those are all relevant interpretations, given that you know nothing of the sculptor. But having that information might alter your perception. The artist was married to a Twi’lek woman and based this image upon his wife. What I see in this sculpture is an act of worship. The hands that shaped this stone had caressed the very curves he memorialized here; he must have repeated those same motions in miniature, an act of loving devotion.” As he spoke, Thrawn stretched out his hand and passed his fingertip down the chiseled plane of the Twi’lek’s stomach. When he paused just before reaching the valley between the dancer's thighs, Hera exhaled silently, releasing a breath she hadn’t known she was holding. Passing his hand through the flickering hologram, Thrawn transferred his touch to the sculpture’s lekku.

“The careful study he has made of his beloved’s physique is apparent. But it isn’t merely superficial. He understands the anatomy beneath the beauty, how her body works, how each part functions in tandem. Here, for example.” He was tracing the line of one lek now, down to the tapered end of the fleshy appendage. “You see the tight curl at the end of each lek? A reaction to intense physical pleasure, matching the expression on her face. The dancing posture is not just an ideal way of displaying her body: it is a metaphor for their intimacy. Do you not see it now?”

Hera swallowed and turned away from the hologram, walking back toward the table. “And I suppose you believe that studying this sculpture has given you some deep insight into Twi’lek culture?”

“Only the study of Twi’lek art could do that.” Thrawn followed her, and Hera berated herself internally for not keeping more distance between them. Thrawn came to stand in front of her, effectively trapping her between his body and the table at her back. _Careless, Hera, careless_.

“But my intention in studying this particular piece was not to understand Twi’lek culture,” he continued, gazing into Hera’s face. “My admiration of art does not just serve military means. That piece is personal to me. I have studied it in order to learn how a Twi’lek wants to be touched.”

Hera was unable to disguise her astonishment, and by the time she recovered herself sufficiently to realize her danger, it was too late. Thrawn had drawn closer and was brushing the fingers of one gloved hand along her cheek. “Shall I demonstrate, my dear Captain, the fruits of all my long hours of study?”

Transfixed, as if unable to fully comprehend what was happening, Hera watched in silence as Thrawn began to remove his gloves, one long finger at a time. Tugging each sheath of black leather slowly off his slender hands, he tossed the gloves carelessly upon the table and turned back to her, his blistering red gaze fixed upon her face. With cruel deliberation he reached out slowly and brushed a single fingertip against her left lek. A shudder ran through Hera’s body, radiating out from her head to her feet, and the touched lek twitched, its tip curling involuntarily before going slack again. Thrawn repeated the gesture, letting his finger trail a little farther this time, letting it linger, and the tip of Hera’s lek curled again, tighter this time, remaining rigid longer, while the shudder that passed through her body was even more pronounced. Her face flushing with hot blood, she glanced at Thrawn and found him watching her closely, his glowing eyes fixed upon her own, and she knew then that he fully understood what he was doing.

What he was doing was one of the most intimate acts a Twi’lek could experience. Most species were able to hide their erogenous zones beneath layers of clothing, but not so the Twi’lek people. The lekku that were so recognizable a part of their anatomy were considered auxiliary sex organs in Twi’lek culture: anyone who knew anything about Twi’leks knew that touching one’s lekku in a certain way was forbidden between strangers, an act of extreme intimacy that provoked deep arousal. Yet here was Thrawn - a cultured, intelligent being possessed with a vast repository of knowledge about galactic species - stroking her lek with a slow, whisper-soft touch. It was no accident.

Continuing to regard her closely, Thrawn reached out again, using several spread fingers to trace down the line of her lek, and Hera bit down violently on her tongue to keep herself from gasping. Why didn’t she stop him? She would ask herself this question over and over again later, but at the moment she could not form a coherent thought. Her lek seemed to be coursing with electricity and her whole body was trembling. Thrawn stepped closer and took her lek in both his hands, cradling the thick column of flesh between his cupped palms, and Hera fought against the moan that unwound itself in her throat. When he leaned down and pressed his mouth to her lek, it was all she could do not to scream.

“My desire for you is all consuming,” he whispered, his lips brushing her skin as he spoke. He set them against her lek again, parted them, sucked gently at her flesh and tasted it with the broad flat of a very wet tongue. “I am on fire, burning from the inside out.” He kept it up, words separated by kisses, kisses separated by words, the soft sucking of his mouth against her twitching lek, the tip of which was now fixed in a rigid, pulsing curl. “Never have I wanted anything more. I must have you, Hera. This need is driving me mad.”

Thrawn had worked his way down her lek and now he held the curled tip in his fingers. Hera watched in disbelief as he lifted it to his lips and, holding her gaze, drew it into his mouth. Instinctively it wrapped itself around his tongue and Thrawn sucked greedily on the length of flesh as Hera fought for her self-control. She felt like her whole body was inside the grand admiral’s mouth, and she rebelled against the sensations spiraling wildly up every nerve, threatening to push her over a precipice from which there was no returning. She could already see the triumph in his gleaming eyes as he watched her struggle to contain a moan. 

With a sudden snarl, Hera pushed against him with both hands, the tip of her lek sliding from his mouth. But Thrawn caught her in his arms before she could dodge around him, and he pressed her back against the edge of the table, his body flush against hers. 

“Why do you resist?” he murmured, his face close to hers, his mouth on her cheek. “I can feel your desire. How badly you want to let go. You know what I can do. You know that I can touch you as you long to be touched. Awaken in you feelings you’ve never even imagined. Stay with me tonight. Let me treat you like the work of art you are, my dear Hera.”

She wanted to fight him, hurt him. She had faced off against opponents bigger, stronger than Thrawn and she had left them limping off in defeat, if not worse. But Hera did nothing. She let Thrawn press a soft kiss to the angle of her jaw, then to the side of her neck. She let him put his hands on her body, move them over the curve of her hips, pass them around until his fingertips lay on her bare spine. Numb, she let the grand admiral lower himself, moving his open mouth along the straps that held up her gown until he reached the edge of the fabric where it draped low across her breasts. She stood in motionless shock as Thrawn brushed his face against her, his hot breath falling dangerously close to her painfully peaked nipples. She was as good as naked in that dress, the fabric so thin and flimsy that she could feel everything as if she wore nothing at all, and Thrawn took advantage of it, letting breath and fingertips and the angle of his cheekbones and the smoothness of his azure skin bombard her with unwanted sensations. 

And in response, Hera did nothing. Until the moment she did something worse than nothing.

She knew she had put her arms around Thrawn when she felt the fabric of his coat scrape gently against the tender underside of her naked arms. She knew she had dug her hands into his hair when she felt it slip silken through her parted fingers. She knew she was clinging to him when she felt the solidity of his body sink into the hollow between her parted legs. A tissue of fabric separated all her secrets from him, and she hated it and feared it, this closeness - just as she hated and feared him. But instead of fighting him, Hera grasped Thrawn and let her head fall back with a gasp as his mouth feasted on the dip between her breasts, his cold facade shattering beneath a guttural growl of need.

 _Force help me_ , she heard herself thinking, _but he feels so good_.

“Saleucami orchids,” he murmured, the tip of his nose brushing the edge of her right breast. “A rare scent.” He pressed another kiss there, then let his mouth graze over her clothed nipple. Hera’s body jerked and instinctively she pressed herself forward, seeking the heat, the tugging suction, of his mouth. But Thrawn straightened instead, returning his lips to the side of her neck, nibbling along the tendon there. “As rare and as bewitching as my Hera--"

“I am not yours!” she hissed, drawing her arms back from his neck and turning her face away from him. Shame flooded her body, keeping pace with arousal, and she wondered what had snapped inside her to render her so weak, so alien to herself.

“My darling,” Thrawn said, pulling back just enough to look at her and trace a touch tenderly down the side of her face. “I think you are, more than you yet realize.” She turned to face him, her mouth set in a scowl of defiance, a curse on her tongue, but the expression on the grand admiral’s face stunned her back into silence. There was triumph there, yes, but something more, something Hera couldn’t quite understand because she had never seen it in Thrawn, or in any Imperial. It was soft and deep rooted and it frightened her more than any grimace of anger or sneer of disgust.

Thrawn laid his fingers against her sternum and slowly slid them beneath the strap of her gown. Grasping it, he pulled the strap taut, then paused, and Hera’s breath caught in her throat. She knew that the slightest tug would break it and the dress would slide from her body. And then Thrawn would have her, all of her, for she could no longer trust herself to resist him.

Maybe that realization spurred her to make one last attempt to save herself.

“I despise you,” she said, holding that eerie red gaze, her voice shaking with anger: at Thrawn or at herself, she didn’t know. “I will despise you, and everything you stand for, until I take my last breath. You may make my body submit to you, but you will never have my heart.”

For a moment Thrawn didn’t react and Hera braced herself for what was to come. But then he smiled. Eyes glittering, he released his hold on the strap and took a step back. 

“There is no such thing as never, Captain. You know that as well as I. Anything is possible in this galaxy. Stars are born, planets die, and beings fall in love. It is not so rare an occurrence - even on opposite sides of a conflict. Even when the object of their love is someone they wish they could despise.”

Turning his back to her, Thrawn went to a control panel on the wall of the central column and pressed an intercom button. “You may bring us down now. My guest is ready to depart.”

“Very good Admiral,” a voice answered, and Hera felt a tremor as the gravitational thrusters around the floating structure begin to fire, driving them back toward the planet’s surface.

“We’ve crossed an important boundary this evening, Captain,” Thrawn said, walking back toward her, his hands now demurely clasped behind his back as if they hadn’t been all over her mere moments before. “I’m sure you feel it. But it wouldn’t do to end so enjoyable a game just yet. Much as I might wish to spend this night exploring you, I will anticipate the enjoyment of that pleasure at another time.”

“You’ll be anticipating it for a very long time indeed,” Hera snapped, retrieving her cloak from the chair where Thrawn had draped it and throwing it around her shoulders. “I may have been foolish enough to lower my guard this once, but I promise you - it won’t happen again.”

“Have no fear, Captain. I no longer have need to resort to subterfuge.” The room shuddered around them as it settled back upon the top of the building and a light above the turbolift doors flashed green, indicating it was safe to use. “The next time we meet you will have come to me of your own accord. And we _will_ make love. Sooner than you think, Hera, you’ll be laying in my arms with no desire to ever leave them. Until then, I bid you good night.” The lift doors opened and Thrawn stepped inside, a small smile pulling the corners of his lips upward. “Please give Kanan Jarrus my best, won’t you?”

When he was gone, all of the steel in Hera’s spine seemed to leak out and she doubled over, gasping for breath. Shaking uncontrollably, she waited for the empty lift to return and she rode it back to the lobby, not thinking, just fleeing as fast as she was able. She hailed another hovertaxi at the landing dock and, holding her cloak wrapped tightly about her, endured the return trip in a fog of mental turmoil and revulsion. Who was she? she wondered. The battle-hardened freedom fighter, defender of the oppressed who would burn the whole Empire to the ground if given the chance? Or was she the woman who so longed for passion that she had allowed herself to be seduced by the cunning mind and clever hands of her greatest enemy? In her mind she was back there still in that floating room, and when she considered how close she’d come to giving herself to Thrawn, she thought she might be sick. Her head pounded and she shook it despite the pain, as if the physical movement might clear it or dismiss those images forever from her memory.

And yet the thought of giving herself to Thrawn set a flame to lick at some hidden, shameless place inside her. Oddly Hera envisioned it as a Saleucami orchid, laying dormant in the darkness for long years until the scorching heat of a foreign body brought it bursting into bloom. Though all the rest of her being recoiled, that orchid inside her burst forth in bright color, yearning for the release of a grand admiral’s touch.

When she reached the spaceport she found all members of her crew gathered in the cargo bay, a game of dejarik in progress between Ezra and Zeb. She held the cloak stiffly closed around her as she entered to the sound of their happy, boisterous greetings, and suddenly she found herself fighting the urge to cry.

“Hey, where have you been?” Zeb asked, not noticing that one of his game pieces was being savaged by one of Ezra’s. “Chopper told us you left hours ago.”

“I had some intel to check out,” Hera stammered, rushing to the ladder that led up to the main part of the ship. “It was no good.”

Kanan was at her side before she could avoid him. “Chopper said something about you going off to meet me. What was that all about?”

“I didn't want him worrying about me, so I told him the first thing that popped into my mind.” Inwardly Hera winced at her words. When had it become so easy for her to lie?

Kanan grasped the edge of her cloak, stopping her from climbing. “Are you all right? You seem-- I don’t know. Upset. Did something happen?”

Hera bit her lip. How to answer this? _Yes, Kanan. So much happened. And how you would flinch away from me, how you would hate me if you knew_. 

“I made a mistake,” she said quietly. “I shouldn’t have gone. But nothing happened. And nothing ever will.” A sudden impulse made her turn from the ladder and, taking Kanan’s face in her hands, she pressed her mouth to his in full view of the crew. If there were mischievous whistles and yells from the dejarik table, she neither cared nor heard them: her heart was pounding too loudly in her ears.

“I love you, Kanan. No matter what happens--" Her voice broke and it took an effort to go on. “No matter what happens, please don’t ever doubt that.”

Before Kanan could respond Hera was up the ladder and rushing to her cabin. The door slid shut behind her and she leaned against it, closing her eyes and covering her face with her hands. The tears came, running in rivers over her lips and into her mouth. She could taste Kanan there, familiar and sweet. 

But there were other places on her body now, hot spots upon her skin where Thrawn’s mouth had marked her, where the memory of his kisses would remain to torment and tease.


End file.
